Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

THIERRY

Durin g the first period of the game, the puck blasted toward Giroux like a missile, ricocheting off the boards with a sharp crack. It careened straight at Boucher, who expertly intercepted it and fired it back at him.

Gerry skated hard, his blades carving into the ice with precision as he glided forward, his movements fluid and almost mesmerizing. The crowd’s roar blurred into white noise as he zeroed in on his target, weaving past two defenders with a mix of grit and grace. He could hear Batiste yelling something behind him, the words indistinct but undeniably colorful. A chuckle rumbled in Gerry's chest, muffled by his facemask, as he made his way toward the goal with ease.

The slap of his stick against the puck echoed in the arena, followed by the resounding clang of it hitting the back of the net, making contact with the metal frame.

Score!

Cheers erupted from the stands, and for a brief moment, Gerry let himself soak it in, his chest he aving with exhilaration.

By the second period, the game had turned scrappier. A chaotic jam-play near the goal had players hacking and slapping at the puck in a frenzied cluster. Sticks clashed violently, and bodies shoved and collided in a tangled mess. A cacophony of curses—both in English and French—rose above the fray, sharp and biting.

“Hey! You leave my mother and my grandmother outta this,” Gerry snapped, his voice cutting through the melee as Batiste and Coeur exchanged increasingly absurd insults with the other team that was currently badmouthing his entire female lineage.

“We’ll be having a ‘celly’ at the Gazpacho household, eh?”

“Ta mère aime les garcons sexy... comme moi,” Batiste taunted with a wicked grin.

“Oh yeah, bro! You know it. Remember last time when she had that little number and was asking you over? You practically had to pull his mother off you!” Coeur fired back with a laugh.

“We were talking about Thierry’s mama…” an opposing player growled, standing tall in indignation and momentarily forgetting about the puck.

“Which is why we are discussing yours now!” Batiste bellowed, tossing off his gloves with theatrical flair. “You got a problem, Gazpacho ? Eh? EH?!”

“It’s Gaspard …” the player corrected, his irritation palpable.

“I know what I said!” Batiste roared, his booming voice drawing attention—and giving Gerry the opportunity he needed.

With a sly grin, Gerry darted away with the puck, his focus narrowing to the play at hand. The sounds of the scuffle faded into the background as his mind honed in on the scrape of his skates, the rhythmic click of stick s, and the heavy cadence of his breath. His heart pounded in his ears, syncing with the drumbeat of the game, each movement precise and purposeful. The puck felt like an extension of him, gliding across the ice as if pulled by an invisible thread.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, he glanced to his left.

People always talked about fate, destiny, or some cosmic alignment of the stars. Gerry wasn’t one for that kind of talk—chakras and karma weren’t exactly his thing—but in that split second, it felt as if the universe had shifted.

His gaze locked onto Molly’s. Her striking blue eyes gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights, and she was wearing a jersey— his jersey? The sight sent a jolt through him, an overwhelming wave of possessiveness so intense it nearly knocked him off balance. Was it his number? He hadn’t noticed her wearing one before, but the fabric looked familiar. He craned his neck, desperate to catch sight of the front to confirm the number. If she was wearing someone else’s jersey…

Oh, they were going to have a long, long talk.

Before he could fully process the thought, a sharp crack jolted him out of his reverie. Someone’s stick smacked against his shin, nearly toppling him. He grunted, recovering just in time to keep control of the puck. His pulse quickened, but his determination solidified. He couldn’t let this slide—not with Molly watching. Did she come to games often? Why wasn’t she sitting in the Alonsy Aisle with the other wives and fiancées? That was her place now, as his girlfriend. He’d make sure she knew it.

He’d tell her after the game. Maybe she didn’t realize she belonged there, that she belonged to him in a way that felt as certain as the ice beneath his skates. The thought fueled him as he pushed harder, driving the puck toward the goal with renewed ferocity. He was going to sink this shot, then skate right up to her and kiss her senseless in front of the entire arena.

And if she was wearing his number?

Oh, it was going to be spectacular. Scandalous, even.

He grinned wickedly under his mask, imagining the SportsCenter headlines. This wasn’t just about the game anymore—it was about claiming what was his, on and off the ice.

Gerry sunk the puck effortlessly, the sound of the crowd erupting in cheers, a euphoric symphony in his ears. With a triumphant grin, he flung both arms and his hockey stick into the air, a gesture of celebration that felt as natural as breathing. The rush of adrenaline coursed through him, but it wasn’t the goal that had his heart racing.

It was her.

He turned his gaze toward Molly, locking eyes with the woman who had haunted his thoughts and dreams for weeks. Those blue eyes of hers, so vivid they could put the brightest sky to shame, were wide with surprise. They slayed him every time, cutting through his tough-guy facade like a hot blade through ice. He loved the way her face gave her away, every flicker of emotion dancing across her features like a beautiful, private show just for him.

Leaning his stick downward, he pointed it directly at her, a silent claim that left no room for interpretation. She was the reason for his joy, the one he wanted to celebrate with, the one who made every victory sweeter. Without hesitation, he began skating toward her, his strides purposeful and strong. The crowd around her shifted, a cluster of eager fans jostling for his attention, but Gerry had eyes only for Molly.

“Hey, guys,” he called out, his voice carrying over the din. “Stay here after the game, and I’ll grab you a few shirts—if I can talk to my girl for just a second.”

The fans, surprisingly cooperative, parted like a well-trained defense line, creating a path stra ight to Molly. His knees, however, almost buckled beneath him the moment he saw her up close. She was wearing his number.

His number.

‘Bout time,” he said, flashing her a lopsided grin as he tried to play it cool. His pulse hammered in his ears, but he forced his tone to remain light, even teasing. “You look good in that number.”

“Oh, I do, huh?” she shot back, her voice as warm and challenging as he remembered. That sass was one of the many reasons he adored her.

“Come here for a second…” He beckoned her toward the left, where a small opening in the rink's protective framework led to the penalty box and the team entrance. His teammates called it Alonsy Alley —a nod to the wives and Batiste’s gameplay scream telling them ‘Let’s Go!’ before a game. And right now, he was about to make the play of his life.

As soon as she was close enough, Gerry didn’t hesitate. He flung off his gloves and dropped his stick like he was gearing up for a brawl, the sharp whistle of a referee slicing through the noise. But a fight was the furthest thing from his mind.

In one fluid motion, he grabbed Molly and pulled her over the railing. Her surprised squeak rang out as he wrapped her tightly in his arms. Then he kissed her—fiercely, deeply, unapologetically. Every ounce of emotion he’d been bottling up poured into that kiss, raw and unfiltered. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, drowning out everything but the softness of her lips and the way she fit perfectly against him.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t let her go. Instead, he cradled her close and began skating down the rink with her in his arms, the crowd’s gasps and cheers blurring into a distant hum. Stopping near Becca and Aimee, he set Molly down gently, his hand lingering at h er waist as if to reassure himself she was real.

Becca, Giroux’s wife, was staring at him with a mix of shock and amusement.

“My girl sits with you,” Gerry said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument as he nodded at her.

Becca raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with a knowing smile. “You take care of my man on the ice.”

“Always,” he promised with a chuckle, giving Molly a wink that sent a flush creeping up her cheeks.

Before skating away, he offered her a small salute, the gesture both playful and heartfelt. He bent down to retrieve his gloves and stick, completely ignoring the referee, who was shouting at him with increasing frustration. Let the guy yell. The penalty box was going to be totally worth it.

Gerry cast one last glance at Molly, who stood frozen, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and disbelief. She liked big gestures, moments with meaning and thought behind them. So, he’d give her exactly that—again and again until there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind about where they stood.

That was his woman, even if she didn’t fully realize it yet. She wanted to take things slow, to feel it out and make sure it was real. Fine. He’d play along—for now. But his clock ran differently than hers, and when the time came, he’d make sure she knew just how serious he was.

For Gerry, love wasn’t a game. It was a lifetime commitment—and he was all in.

T he game ended with him parked in the penalty box yet again, not that Gerry cared. It had been worth every second just to exchange a few lingering smiles with Molly—who was staring at him from the stands like he’d completely lost his mind. Mayb e he had. But for once, he felt perfectly fine with that. This whole relationship thing, the thing he’d resisted for so long, was starting to feel right.

Once, he’d been baffled watching his teammates lose their hearts so quickly. Giroux had practically sprinted into love with Becca. And Batiste? That guy was certifiably insane with how fast he fell for Aimee after just one blind date. At the time, it had seemed ridiculous. But now, with Molly, he understood. The kicker? He hadn’t even planned to fall for her. Heck, he’d actively avoided it. She terrified him.

Molly was everything he hadn’t thought he wanted. In his mind, his perfect girl was blonde, sleek, and bubbly—someone who would fit neatly into his neatly constructed life. Molly, though? She was the exact opposite. A temperamental, no-nonsense firecracker with jet-black hair that cascaded down her back and legs that could bring him to his knees just by standing there. Her sharp tongue kept him on edge, her fierce independence made him chase her harder, and her vulnerability—the part she worked so hard to hide—drew him in like nothing else ever had.

Behind her shields, she was softer, sweeter than anyone could imagine. It was there in the way her voice caught when she was nervous, in the unguarded flicker of uncertainty in her eyes when he kissed her. It was in the way she held herself, so strong and capable, yet with cracks she tried so desperately to keep hidden. He didn’t just see them; he wanted to fill them, to make her whole, to be her safety net when the world felt too heavy.

They were opposites in every way. He was chaos; she was order. He leaned into spontaneity; she clung to plans. She was the storm that shook his perfectly still waters, and somehow, impossibly, they worked.

Oh gosh, did it work…

He wanted to kiss her for hours the moment he spotted her in his jersey, losing himself in her t ouch, wanting to see all that dark hair spread across his pillow on a sleepy morning. He wanted to worship those curves, tell her he cared, and wished he could wash away all the doubts in her anxious little mind so she knew that this was it . But that wasn’t how love worked.

He could see now, more clearly than ever, that Molly needed those moments – the kind of emotional vulnerability that he wasn’t used to showing, the kind of assurance that made her feel cherished.

And now, with that knowledge burning in his chest, he knew it was game on. He was ready to play this game, to make her feel the love he had growing for her in ways she could understand.

Every kiss, every touch, every word would count, and he would make sure she never had to wonder if she was enough. Because in his eyes, she was everything. He knew the game and the rules now and was setting the board up in his favor.

He was playing to win.